by Tricia Goyer
Lord, help Dad. He’d whispered the same simple prayer at least fifty times since he hung up from his telephone call with Mom thirty minutes ago.
“Son, is everything all right?” Tilly approached him again.
“Only a rancher thinks he’s man enough to buck hay himself—and he’s wrong.” He could almost hear his dad’s voice in his head. “It’s more efficient to ask for help. No room for pride during harvesting season. Many hands make light work.”
His dad had many illustrations, but most of them had to do with farming. Even when Kenny’s heart was broken by Alicia Harcourt his senior year, Dad used the farming lesson as a picture of spiritual things. “Don’t let your heart grow hard. Water it with thankfulness to God. In our Maker’s perfect time He’ll plant a seed and make it grow.”
“Kenny boy, don’t you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Concern dripped from Tilly’s voice. “I can take a break—find someone to cover.”
“I will fill you in.” He sighed. “But not now. I—I’d like to come back later, if that’s okay.” Kenny scratched his chin, knowing he’d share his burden with Tilly when they could sit down, really talk, and pray—maybe later today, after the ladies left.
She patted his cheek. “You don’t even need to ask. I’m available anytime.”
“Thanks.” Kenny’s heart lightened just knowing he’d share the load with Tilly. He gave a smile. “I’d have to say, though,” he said, returning to the previous conversation, “Mom would argue that she’s the best cook. Don’t you remember? Neither of you would ever accept the blue ribbon for apple pies at the fair. ‘Give it to Shirley,’” Kenny mocked. “‘No, no, no! Tilly deserves the prize.’” He pinched her cheek slightly, just as she used to do to him when he was a child.
Laughter spilled from Tilly, dancing around the room. “Now, now, you grab a seat, and I’ll bring that order to you in a few minutes.” She glanced at the table of ladies. “Maybe you want to introduce yourself. I promised your mom I’d find you a wife in the city. There are a whole slew of fine prospects, ripe for the picking!” She wiped her hands off on her apron.
“Aunt Tilly,” Kenny said in a loud whisper, then folded his arms against his chest, pressing his thin navy blue tie against his white dress shirt, “will you and Mom ever let up about finding me a wife?”
“I doubt it, dear.”
“Well then, I guess I’d better introduce myself.”
“You will? You really will?” Then her eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”
Kenny merely grinned at her before sauntering over to the corner booth. He tried to ignore the way his stomach flipped. Was it his attraction for Rosalie, or fear of being rejected a third time?
He only hoped she’d read this morning’s article. When he returned to his apartment last night, Kenny couldn’t bear knowing he’d upset her—even though her only accusation was that he was a reporter. He stayed up late rewriting his article, hoping a flattering, yet honest story might make everything right with her. He’d rushed it to the midnight crew—despite the chill of the night air and the downpour—and his typesetter buddy Al had pushed it through for him. Yet another favor he owed Al.
Rosalie leaned against the window, pointing at something outside. Giggles escaped her smooth lips, and her nose crinkled. The other ladies pressed in behind her, and Kenny tipped his head so he could see what they saw. A kitten on the sidewalk batted a feather that was whipping around in the wind.
“You should grab that feather, Rose,” Birdie said, settling back in her seat. “Put it in your war effort bin.”
“Or maybe I should rescue the kitten and give it to Mrs. Sorrenson,” Rosalie said. “Ward off her loneliness with all her boys gone. That reminds me. I have letters for them. Did you all remember to write to our boys? It’s not that hard to write a short letter, and the USO gals tell me it really lifts their spirits.” She swiveled toward Lanie, sitting next to her. “If you want to write, I’d be happy to mail it for—”
Seeing Kenny, her smile faded. No more crinkled nose.
Kenny palmed the back of his hair. Boy, oh boy. He’d said she was beautiful in the article, but the word barely described her loveliness. The sunshine gleaming through the window showcased her beauty, bringing a sparkle to her eyes and a shine to her dark brown hair.
But why the frown? Surely she couldn’t still be angry with him. Could she?
“Hiya ladies,” Kenny said, raising his voice to be heard over the Louis Armstrong song coming from the jukebox. “I’m in the mood for love simply because you’re near me,” old Satchmo sang. Kenny looked at Rosalie, who fixed her gaze resolutely on her friends.
“What’s buzzin’, cousin?” Iris said. “Have a seat.”
Kenny pulled a curved-backed chair from the next table and swung his legs around it, sitting backwards and scooting up to the booth.
Rosalie still refused to look at him. “So, ladies, as we were saying,” she said coldly, businesslike, “where are we going to live?”
Kenny glanced at Birdie, who smiled apologetically and shrugged.
“So, Kenny”—Lanie tipped her head and flashed a smile—“what brings you here this morning?”
Kenny’s feet rocked from ball to heel. “Well,” he said, looking cautiously at Rosalie, “I was just wondering if you—”
She gave not even a glimmer of acknowledgment that he was there.
He continued, “If you all read my article this morning?”
“Oh no.” Birdie covered her cheeks with her palms and shook her head.
This time Rosalie acknowledged him, her eyes blazing in fury. “I did, actually,” she snapped. “Thank you very much!”
“You’re, ah, welcome?”
“I’ve never been so humiliated in my life!”
He drew back, alarmed. What was wrong with this girl? He pushed his chair back, but there was no escaping her seething words.
“How could you write an article about me—print a photograph—without asking?”
“I’m sorry, Rosalie. It’s not policy to—”
“I don’t care about your policy. Or that it was just a short article. Or that you were in the picture too, if that’s what you were going to say.”
Kenny scratched his chin. They actually were good points. Points he would have used. All at once, he felt like he was trapped in a bad movie. The dialogue was all wrong, and the soundtrack too overbearing.
He opened his mouth to defend himself, but she steamrollered over him. “Because of you,” she spat, “first I’m thrust on stage in front of multitudes. And then you’re all smooth and nice at the Igloo, just to lure me in.” Her eyebrows arched like a comic-book villain. “And then you have the nerve to plaster me all over the front page?”
Kenny fought for calm. He tried to put himself in this woman’s shoes and ignore her friends’ shocked expressions. “It wasn’t, actually, the front page,” he mumbled.
“All I want to do is work at the plant and keep to myself. I’ll collect scraps, silk, rubber for the war effort. I’ll plant victory gardens in every neighborhood in Seattle. I’ll even go door to door asking people to buy war bonds, but let the Lana Turners of the world bask in the attention.”
Kenny’s mind sped like a stock car as he attempted to keep up with her arguments. “You did break the national record, Miss Madison.” Kenny’s rational mind attempted to reason with her. “You had to expect some interest from the media.”
She lowered her chin, her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t break the record to win some kind of fame. Me and Birdie here”—she grabbed Birdie’s hands—“we did it for our own satisfaction, right, Birdie?”
Birdie pursed her lips. “Well,” her high-pitched voice squeaked, “I think it’d be kinda fun to be in the paper.” Her eyebrows perked up. “And there was the bet—”
Rosalie yanked her hands away and glowered at her friend.
“What?” Birdie lifted her palms in innocence. “I’m just telling him what I think.”
; “But he’s a reporter!”
Birdie’s eyebrows narrowed. “You know, I wasn’t going to say anything, Rosalie, because I know you didn’t mean to be offensive. And I know you’re really only so angry because you’re attracted to this guy.”
Electricity bolted through Kenny at her words.
“But sweets,” Birdie continued, her voice shaky, “my brother was a reporter before he left for war. I happen to think it’s an honorable profession.”
Rosalie sat back in her chair as if she’d been slapped. An awkward silence sifted around them.
Lanie was the first to crack the stillness. “I don’t have a problem with reporters.” Her pink lips lifted in a slight smile. “I thought your story was real nice.”
Kenny took in Lanie—beautiful, sweet, soft-spoken. Why can’t I fall for a girl like her?
Were it not for Nick’s obvious interest, he’d ask Lanie for a date right now. Heck, maybe he should make his next story about her. Southern crooner comes to the big city, joins the workforce, all the while holding out for her dream of a career in music. It could work.
The farther away he could get from Rosalie, the better.
Rosalie cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean it that way, Birdie,” she said softly.
For the first time, Kenny wondered who had hurt her so badly that she’d react like this. The way she snipped and snarled reminded him of the stray dog that hung around his home when he was a child. The dog tried to bite anyone who wanted to help or even bring him food. His mother told him it was because someone hurt him—and the poor pooch was reacting to that, trying to scare away even those who wished to be a friend.
Kenny could tell Rosalie was trying to make things better with Birdie, but he’d never met a more opinionated and frustrating woman.
“Rosalie.” Birdie’s hands trembled. “You need to think about others’ feelings. Your words can hurt. I don’t always say anything, but when you’re talking about my brother, I needed to speak up. Being frustrated with Kenny, for who knows what reason, doesn’t give you the right to bash all reporters.”
Rosalie reached out her hands toward Birdie’s, but Birdie pulled them under the table. Rosalie looked as if she might cry.
Kenny scooted his chair back and stood. If he’d come here looking for a break from a stressful morning, he sure hadn’t found it. He only hoped Aunt Tilly was too busy with the other customers to be paying attention to all this. Tilly had a way of standing up for injustice—in a loving but firm way, of course.
He rotated his chair and put it back at its spot at the other table. Again he glanced at Rosalie. “I apologize, miss, if the article upset you. I truly only wanted to let folks know about the talented and hard-working riveters at our Boeing plant. You and Birdie deserve accolades. My intentions were honorable. I hope you believe that.”
Rosalie kept her gaze downcast, refusing to meet his eye.
“I had a wonderful time dancing with you,” Kenny said. “But I won’t be bothering you again.” He turned toward Lanie. “Come back to the Igloo soon. Nick would love for you to sing with them again.” He tipped his head and smiled at the group. “Good day, ladies.”
The song “Miss You” sang from the jukebox as he rambled toward the door.
Aunt Tilly intercepted him with a plate of food. “Kenny, your order’s ready, honey.”
“Sorry, Aunt Tilly, I’m not hungry anymore.” He put two quarters on the counter to cover his bill. “Talk to you later, okay?”
“All right, darlin’.” And from her wistful look, Kenny knew she’d heard every word of the exchange at the corner booth.
Chapter Thirteen
Rosalie barely tasted her eggs and bacon, though the eggs were cooked to perfection and the bacon crisp, the way bacon was meant to be. From the corner of her eye, she saw Birdie picking at her food as well, though Iris and Lanie consumed their breakfasts as though they hadn’t seen food in a month, chatting amiably all the while.
Now the four plodded back up the Queen Anne Hill, retracing their path toward home. The gleaming sunshine from their earlier walk hid behind a small bank of gray clouds. Rosalie glanced behind her toward Mt. Rainier—the majestic mountain that reigned over Seattle like a king. Beyond the moveable clouds she spotted sun glistening over the snow-blanketed peak. Soon the gray would shift and permit sunlight to soak the city’s streets again, but at this moment, Seattle was bathed in a dingy bleakness.
The frustration that had festered and swelled since the moment Rosalie saw the local page continued to gnaw at her stomach. Iris and Lanie chatted, but Rosalie kept her lips pressed tight.
It didn’t seem fair that she hadn’t done anything wrong and it had come to this. It had been Kenny who ran into her at the square. Kenny who got her on stage with Lana Turner. Kenny who tried to weasel in when her defenses were down and ask for an interview. The list went on. Yet she was the one Birdie was mad at!
She ventured a peek at Birdie, who stormed alongside. Birdie’s eyes focused straight ahead. Rosalie hadn’t meant to hurt Birdie. She hadn’t meant to make her day worse than it already was. Her friend should’ve understood that Rosalie was referring to the reporters she knew—mainly Pops—and not Birdie’s brother. Even though Rosalie tried to explain what she meant, Birdie wouldn’t listen. Besides, it was really Birdie who had slighted her.
Why didn’t she back me up? She knew how upset I was about that ridiculous photo and even more ludicrous story. “Lovebirds!”
As friends, roommates, and work partners, they usually dealt with hurt feelings quickly—both sides admitting her part in the conflict and releasing the tension with a good laughing spell. But this time Birdie was being stubborn. A friend was supposed to support you and not take things personally. Birdie should’ve known what she’d meant.
I can’t believe she thought I was talking about her brother too.
They marched past the S&M Market, and a gush of cool wind sent shivers up Rosalie’s legs under her skirt. Her lips ached from the dry wind, and she reached for her lipstick from her satchel.
“Shoot!” she grumbled. “I forgot my pocketbook.”
“You better go on back and get it,” Iris suggested. “I bet it’s still tucked under the table.”
Rosalie pivoted around without looking at her roommate. “Does anyone want to walk back with me?”
No one answered, but she was past the point of caring. “Okay, then. I’ll see you ladies later. I should be able to join up with you to catch the bus to work.”
“Sounds good.” Iris offered a smile.
Lanie waved. “See you then.”
Birdie simply tromped on.
Rosalie inspected her sandals, now dirty from the walk. She again shivered at the brisk breeze on her legs. If she’d worn slacks, she could’ve run back. Not that she was in a hurry. She had three hours before her shift. Maybe the walk would be good for her. Maybe it would give her time to clear her head—to figure out how her world had turned upside down in just a few days.
She arrived at The Golden Nugget a few minutes later, the rushing breeze following her in, rustling the Life magazines lined up in a rack.
“There you are, honey.” Miss Tilly’s hand disappeared under the counter and reappeared with Rosalie’s satchel. “I figured you’d come back for this. If I knew where you lived, I could have delivered it after work. Then again, you most likely would have been at the plant by then.” A soft chuckle bounced from the older woman’s mouth.
Rosalie sighed in relief as she received it. “Thank you, ma’am, I—”
“Call me Miss Tilly.” She patted Rosalie’s hand. “My friends do.”
The kindness in the woman’s maternal smile smoothed Rosalie’s rumpled spirit.
“Actually, I’m glad you came back,” Miss Tilly said. “There’s something I wanted to ask you, but you left so sudden, I didn’t get the chance. C’mere.” She motioned Rosalie behind the counter.
Rosalie paused. “Back there?”
“Come
on.” Her eyes shimmered. “Don’t be shy. I want to show you something.”
“Okay.” Rosalie skirted the counter, and Miss Tilly grabbed her hand like she was a child before leading her through the swinging kitchen door.
The smell of bleach immediately hit Rosalie, along with a splatter of water on her legs from a mop splashing into a bucket. A slim man with white-blond hair and ruddy cheeks peered up at them, his frosty blue eyes unimpressed.
“Hans, honey,” Miss Tilly patted the man’s back but didn’t stop walking, “I’m takin’ a break. Lydia’ll be here in a minute.”
“Ya sure,” Hans answered in a Scandinavian accent.
Miss Tilly practically skipped as she tugged Rosalie through the tiled kitchen and out the back door. Glinting light washed over Rosalie. Glancing at the sky, Rosalie pondered that any clouds had ever darkened that crisp blue sky. “Guess the wind blew those clouds away,” she mumbled as she walked. When Miss Tilly stopped short, Rosalie stumbled, nearly bumping into her.
“What are we doing, Miss Tilly?”
The older woman didn’t answer, and an aroma, strong and sweeter than perfume, tickled Rosalie’s senses. She could almost taste it. Rosalie took in the sight of a back alley, small, probably only ten by ten, but overflowing with potted flowers. Bright pink, yellow, purple, red—even colors Rosalie didn’t know the names of—transformed the dingy alley into a true queen’s garden.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, frustration and anger seeping away like stagnant water down a drain. “Did you do this?”
“Well, some of it.” Tilly led Rosalie down a narrow path through the middle of the lush garden of potted plants, the only evidence of the cement beneath the foliage. “When I started working at this place a few years back, I discovered that a flower garden once flourished back here, but only there, along the wall.” She strolled to a row of pots blooming with pansies and creeping ferns.